


a call to motion

by jlhd



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, Studio Art AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18332246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlhd/pseuds/jlhd
Summary: You look pretty today, is what he wants to say. But, instead he goes for: “There’s blue in your hair.”





	a call to motion

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted in honor of Tessa's go-to song.  
> Studio modeled after [The Torpedo Factory](https://www.google.com/search?q=the+torpedo+factory&rlz=1CAEAQE_enUS815&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjnxMr2u6vgAhXonuAKHcWECiEQ_AUIDygC&biw=1366&bih=697#imgrc=n3RmOedNIxE8EM:).  
> Gratitude and dedications to [Emma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishfulwannabe/pseuds/wishfulwannabe) and [Callie](http://tutuvirtues.tumblr.com/).  
> Shoutout to [Chrissy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop/pseuds/falsettodrop), [Amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinkingsidewalks/pseuds/sinkingsidewalks), [Kristina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice), and [Agus](https://tessabirtue.tumblr.com/).  
> 

\-----

He’s been staring at this block for hours. Three, to be exact. The unlit cigarette he’s been fiddling with sits wrinkled and limp in his hand, specks of tobacco falling to the polished concrete below him. This exhibition is supposed to highlight movement, and he’s not sure how to do that with only a giant slab of stagnant marble.

For three hours he’s been staring, the lights reflecting off the stone and stinging his eyes. For three hours he’s been swiveling back and forth in his chair, trying to think of something, anything. Even Stanley had come to sit with him for a bit, rubbing against his leg before perching atop his lap, tail flicking against his chest. Eventually, he also left, purring and pawing at the _Do Not Disturb_ sign as he exited the studio, which Scott only took as a “good luck with that, buddy.”

It would’ve been less than three hours if the studio next to him would just quit the incessant noise, the building echoing with sounds of sliding and scraping. Come to think of it, that studio has always been empty. He tucks his irritation away in the back of his mind. The squeaking his chair has been making is probably equally, if not more so, annoying to the person next door.

The irritation is brought back, however, when a loud bang and an accompanying “what the fuck” shakes the floor. Frustrated, he gets up, the chair rolling back and knocking against the furthest brick wall. The metal handle of the glass door is cool to his touch, the heat radiating off of him as he gears up to give this rude-ass dude a piece of his mind.

After five strides, he pauses at the edge of the outer glass wall to find that this _rude-ass dude_ is in fact a very tiny, sweaty, flustered young woman, struggling to lift a fallen canvas about four times her size, boxes and piles of notebooks scattered around her. All the sliding and scraping makes sense now. Stanley is sitting along the outer railing watching the scene unfold as Scott finally pushes his way through the glass door, his hand leaving an imprint on the surface.

“Hi, uh-” he begins, before the woman gives a yelp, spine straightening and hands coming to clutch against her heart.

“Jesus, you scared me!” she gasps out, breath staggered from all the rearranging she seems to be caught up in.

“Sorry, sorry, uh-” he continues, noticing the way her chest heaves as she stares at him. “Do you need help with that? I promise I’m not a burglar or anything. My studio is next door.” He extends his hand, motioning to the object between them.

Her hands come down to her sides, relaxing as she cocks her head slightly, black tendrils of hair falling to cling against her neck. “Yeah, sure. That would be great actually. Thank you.”

“Not a problem, at all,” Scott says, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and bending his knees to pick up the item, the brown paper crinkling against his hands.

It takes both of them a few minutes to slide it to the opposite wall, joining other canvases wrapped in blankets and brown paper. Scott notices that they’re all definitely bigger than this woman and begins to regret how he spent the majority of those past three hours loathing every sound she made. He wonders how she managed to move the bulk of them on her own.

“Thank you, seriously,” her small voice says, bringing his focus back. “I gave instructions to the movers to set them against this left wall but I guess that’s what I get for not actually being here to help them overcome their directional challenges.”

“All good,” Scott laughs. “I learned that the hard way. At least these are canvases and not a few tons of stone.” His head turns swiftly to the canvases still wrapped away, curiosity getting the best of him. “Do you mind if I-?”

“Oh, please, go right ahead,” she says, as he starts to rip the paper from the object.

Scott takes a few steps back to marvel at the sight before him. It’s a black and white photo of a woman, hands against her face, fingers digging into her skin as she yells in anguish.

“Did you- you took this?” he asks, jaw slack in wonder.

“Drew it actually. It’s charcoal,” the woman answers.

“Holy shit.”

“Haha, thank you,” she says, walking towards the door to let Stanley through, who seems to want in on all the appreciation.

Scott’s still standing when she returns, Stanley weaving around his legs. “I’ve seen some photorealism in my day but this- this is incredible. All that raw emotion. And in black and white, too.”

“I mostly work with acrylic paints. This is just for fun.”

“For fun? Yeah, sure, okay,” Scott says sarcastically, and she lets out a soft giggle, laugh lines forming against her green eyes. _So, so green._ He mentally kicks himself for not helping her out sooner. “Do you want to take a break?” He offers. “I was just about to smoke a cigarette on the balcony before I saw you struggling in here.”

“Yeah I could definitely use a break,” she says, breathless, following him out the glass door towards the balcony at the end of the hall next to her studio.

Scott leans against the railing, peering over at the docks below them and the twinkling lights hanging above the boats. It’s a view that always brings him the most serenity, other than a hammer and chisel against stone, of course. He watches the woman take in the views around her as he reaches in his back pocket for the box. He flips the top open, bringing the box to his lips to grab at the end of a cigarette.

“You want one?” he asks, taking the cigarette from his mouth and offering her the pack.

“Yes, thanks,” she responds, fingers delicately taking one. “I ran out, on today of all days.”

She places the cigarette between her lips, body twisting slightly to fiddle with something in her pocket.

“Here, let me,” Scott says, brandishing a lighter of his own, flicking the flint gear and bringing the flame towards her. She takes a few puffs, the end of the cigarette turning black, catching the flame.

“Thanks,” she exhales, the plume of smoke filling the night air around them.

“Of course,” he says, beginning to light his own.

They stand for a moment, leaning against the railing, and polluting the night air, listening to the river flow, and the soft thuds of boats knocking against the dock. There are a few people milling about, the bars nearing their closing time.

That’s when Scott realizes. “Uh- this is rude of me, but I never asked your name.”

She exhales, smoke coming out of her mouth in choppy clouds as she laughs. “That’s okay. I never gave it before you started helping me. And helping a stranger is definitely not rude. But I’m Tessa. Tessa Virtue,” she says, tapping the cigarette against the railing, sending small embers and ash to fall against the metal.

“Wait, _you’re_ Tessa Virtue?” Scott chokes on the smoke.

“Yes, haha,” she responds, a smile spreading across her face.

“ _The_ Tessa Virtue?” Scott’s eyes go wide.

“Last time I checked, yes. Me, Tessa Virtue.”

“Holy shit, you did the Prime Minister’s family portraits!”

“Yupp.”

“And the murals along St-Laurent Boulevard!”

“Yes, those too.”

Scott is beside himself. He’s marveled at her work for years, passing them every day in his beloved city. He’s seen her commissioned works all over the news, unlucky enough to catch a glimpse of the woman herself. Until now.

He continues to stand there, eyebrows raised and jaw hanging open, until she asks, “What about you? What’s your name?”

“Oh uh, me? I’m Scott. Scott Moir,” he answers, extending his hand for her to shake.

Her eyes go equally as wide, as she inadvertently takes his hand in both of hers. “Wait. Scott Moir?!” He thinks her eyes are starting to glow. “Why are you freaking out over me? I should be freaking out over you! I literally stared at your sculpture of The Demise Of Man in the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts for _hours_. I think the guards started to think that I had become part of your exhibit.”

“I promise you, it would have been an honor, if you were.” Oh no. _Too far, Moir_.

Luckily she doesn’t seem to notice, he thinks. Or really care. “Wow, this is incredible. Who would’ve thought that I’d take up studio residence next to _the_ Scott Moir,” she says, letting go of his hand, regrettably on Scott’s end.

“I feel the same about you.” _Really, Scott?_ “But, uh, don’t get too excited just yet,” he chuckles, returning for a puff of his cigarette, as Tessa grinds her heel into the one she mistakenly dropped. “I’m sure the constant sounds of me hammering and banging away at stone will set you off eventually.”

“Banging never bothered me,” she answers, and Scott’s mouth goes dry as he chokes on an inhale.

A grin tugs at the corners of her lips as she watches him collect himself.

“So, is there coffee around here? I could really use some,” she says abruptly, turning toward the doors as his coughing finally subsides.

“Yeah there’s a little workroom and kitchen next to my studio,” he answers, putting the cigarette out against the bottom of his boot and flicking it over the balcony.

\-----

“Hey Frank!” Scott’s voice booms, as he shoots a wave to the custodian polishing the floor down below them. The man takes off his cap and returns Scott’s greeting.

“Stanley causing you trouble up there?” Frank asks.

“Only the usual,” Scott answers back, waving again as he makes a left for the workroom door.

Scott has always been in awe of the building- his home essentially. Three stories high with railings along the walkways, the place was imbued with air and light; anyone who stood in the atrium could get a clear picture of each floor, studio, and classroom. From his studio, with its open glass wall facing the center, he can see all the creativity occupying the space. The main glass ceiling showing a clear view of the stars above. He peaks over his shoulder at Tessa, who seems to already have the same appreciation for it, eyes glancing in wonderment around the building.

Once inside, Scott begins busying himself with the coffee.

“This is bigger than the kitchen in my apartment,” Tessa mutters.

“Yeah, Marie and Patch put it in after they realized that some of us don’t go home.”

“Married to our crafts,” Tessa laughs.

“You’ve got that right.” Scott flips the switch on, prompting the gurgling sounds of the coffee maker to fill the room, watching as Tessa glides over to the fridge, popping it open.

“Uh, is that a brain in a jar?” she asks, grimacing.

“Oh yeah. Chiddy is a cinematographer. He’s on the second floor, on the other side of the building. He claims he needs it for something.” Scott chuckles. “Don’t ask me how many times I’ve come in here thinking that was a jar of pickles.”

“Ew, noted,” she giggles, closing the fridge and plopping her body down on the center couch.

“Kaetlyn usually sleeps there,” Scott says, reaching for two cups in the top cupboards, beginning to fill them with the savory brown liquid. “She does performance art.” He walks over to Tessa, whose arm shoots up from where it was sprawled against her chest.

“Thanks,” she says, sitting up as she takes the cup from him, and standing to face him. “Luckily I brought my hammock set-up, just in case. Hopefully the crowds aren’t too weirded out by some chick curled up in a hammock when they peep in.”

“There are actually curtains along the glass wall,” Scott remarks, taking a sip and heading towards the door. “Marie had them installed so we don’t feel like we’re in fishbowls all the time when people come through. I’ve got a cot tent and sleeping bag in mine. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve slept in that thing.”

“And they say the creative mind never sleeps,” Tessa says between sips, pushing through the workroom door.

\-----

Stanley is sprawled on the floor in front of Scott’s studio as they make their way back across the walkway. Tessa pauses in front of the furry creature, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. “What are you working on?” she asks, standing back up after Stanley gives her a purr of approval.

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Scott sighs, his feelings of irritation and defeat coming back to him. He pushes the glass open and she follows him inside, the _Do Not Disturb_ sign clattering.

All along the left wall are various wood and marble sculptures, men and women frozen in time. A ladder sits in the furthest right corner, hammers and chisels laying in a pile around it. A potter’s wheel is tucked away in the furthest left corner behind a glass and metal desk, adorned with a laptop and scattering of notebooks and pens.

“You work with clay?” Tessa inquires, motioning to the wheel.

“Yeah, but usually just on Sundays. I teach a class with the loveliest, little old ladies. They bake the best cookies.”

“I’ll definitely be stopping by, if only for the cookies,” she says with a wry grin, setting her mug down on his desk, before standing next to where his feet are planted, in front of the formless marble slab. “But really though,” she says, softer this time, as if the stone has requested total silence. “I’ll be teaching a finger painting class with kids. So I’ll be around on Sundays.”

“I look forward to it,” Scott says, winking down at her. He lets out a sigh suddenly as he turns back to the silent giant, arms crossing, his smile turning into a slight frown.

“What’s it for?” Tessa asks, leaving his side to walk around the block.

“There’s an event happening at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. It’ll feature a collection of artists and their take on _movement_ ,” he says, hands leaving his body to accentuate the word with air quotes. He starts to walk around the stone as well, his hands beginning to rub along the cold surface. “There’ll be a lot of interactive art installations, performance artists, and then… well… me. The lone sculptor.”

Tessa takes a step back after walking around the stone, watching as Scott continues his thought process, fingers dancing along the marble, palms gripping at the edges.

“I’m just not so sure what to do,” Scott finally huffs, hands coming back across his chest. “How do I capture movement in something that doesn’t move?”

“I’m sure you’re more than capable,” Tessa says.

“You don’t have to-”

“No, I’m serious,” Tessa continues, taking a few steps to where his finished works are displayed. “Your entire body of work has always been the most realistic, and frankly jarring, I’ve ever seen. Other sculptors seem to morph the human body away from their original form, with blank faces void of emotion. But... not you. You’re able to capture every tug and pull of skin, every tear shed and goosebump raised, anger and grief suspended in stone. You know the human body, how it thinks, how it feels, how it responds. I know, for a fact, that you’re more than capable of highlighting how it moves as well. You just need something that moves you first.”

Scott rolls his lips inward, brow furrowed, studying the woman before him. His arms come down from his chest, settling in his back pockets as he begins to rock back and forth on his heels. “You’re really smart, you know that?”

“Well, I mean, I am _the_ Tessa Virtue,” she laughs.

 _And you move me_ , Scott thinks.

\-----

He’s been standing at the sink, watching as the water pours over his hands, the steady flow eroding the clay that had accumulated along his skin and turning the clear liquid to a murky gray as it splashes against the enamel surface. He’s transfixed, going back and forth between clenching and unclenching his hands, watching as the water changes direction over the bulging of his veins, and turning his palm up to face the spout, the small streams running through the lines of his palm, overflowing and spilling through the spaces between his fingers.

“Are you okay?” A familiar voice asks, startling him as he inadvertently splashes himself, soaking the front of his shirt, the black turning darker against his chest.

“Jesus,” he exhales, turning to see her, Tessa, standing between the double doors of the classroom.

“You scared me first,” she giggles, the light from the windows casting her skin in a warm glow. “Thought I’d return the favor.”

“How kind of you,” he says, smiling at her briefly before reaching for a cloth at the end of the sink to dab at his shirt. “But yeah, I’m good. Just cleaning up from today.” He drops the cloth, grabbing for the ends of his shirt, shaking the edge to allow the fabric to dry against the air as he returns his gaze to her.

 _You look pretty today_ , is what he wants to say. But, instead he goes for: “There’s blue in your hair.”

“What, where?” she asks, her hands shooting up as she strains her neck to catch a glimpse of the offending pigment.

Scott lets out a laugh, walking towards her and taking up a lock of hair, a blue glob of paint running down the ends. “Right here,” he says, his fingertips feeling cool against the paint.

“Darn kids,” Tessa mutters, grabbing his wrist to pull his hand out of her hair, brow furrowing as she inspects the color that stained his skin.

“You done with that sink?” she asks, pushing past him and dropping her bag atop one of the tables.

“Yeah it’s all yours,” he says, turning as she flicks the faucet on.

She leans across the counter, hair cascading off her shoulders to join the steady stream of water from the spout, the dark strands cocooned in aqua, swaying at the mercy of liquid. He can’t help but stare at the peek of creamy skin that had appeared as the fabric of her shirt lifted along the arch of her spine when she angled her head into the sink. He can’t help but stare at the muscles in her legs and arms, deliciously defined as she puts pressure on her toes, boosting her body upwards to scrub at the paint locked into the strands. He can’t help but-

“Eh, I think that’s good enough,” she says, jolting him out of his reverie. “One of the boys must’ve got me.” She scoops the bag from the table, swinging it over her bare shoulder, the strap thick and rough compared to the silk band of her tank top.

“They’re tricky, those boys,” Scott says, walking around her to grab for a bowl still left on one of the back tables.

“Definitely,” she says, adjusting the bag against her frame. “Not sure what I was thinking, giving a class with kids and fingerpaint.”

“Way better than little old ladies and pottery,” Scott chuckles, picking up a misplaced chair and continuing to tidy up.

“Yeah but at least you got cookies,” she says, perching herself on a table, one of her legs swinging.

“True,” he says, opening a cabinet to retrieve his backpack. “But those cookies come baked with the hope that I’ll go out with one of their sons or daughters.”

“Ooooh,” she says, dramatically, shoulders wiggling and mouth forming a perfect circle, the table creaking slightly as she does. “Why buy all this art when you could be buying the love of the legendary sculptor himself, Scott Moir?” Her arms stretch out, motioning towards him, like some game show host revealing a prize.

Scott blushes, feeling a blush warm his cheeks, “Oh god.”

“Speaking of cookies, you save me any?” She asks, a grin spreading across her face.

“Indeed I did,” he answers, hand burrowing into his bag. “But just one though. I hope you like chocolate chip.” His hand resurfaces clutching a small, napkin-wrapped parcel.

“I love chocolate!” she exclaims, leaping to her feet and swiping the cookie from him.

It is quite possibly the cutest thing that Scott has ever seen. He smiles as she watches her crumple the napkin in her hand, pink lips settling over the treat as her teeth crunch into it. He files the chocolate fact away for later.

“Whahh werr yuh all working ohhn,” she asks through a mouthful of cookie.

Scott smiles, adjusting his bag against his shoulder. He loves how curious she is. He starts to walk towards the back, the wall lined with shelved walls above a bevy of pottery wheels. She follows closely behind, her steady crunching filling Scott’s ears.

He stops in front of a wheel, pointing to one of the middle shelves, “We made bowls today.”

Tessa walks ahead of him, peering up at the clay forms above her, lips pursing forward as she absentmindedly sucks residual chocolate off the pad of her thumb. Scott catches himself wondering if her skin tastes as sweet as that chocolate.

“What’ll they use them for?” She asks, eyes squinting to inspect each bowl.

“I’m not really sure. Decorating mostly. I know Jane will use them for her succulents,” Scott says, casting his gaze upon Tessa.

“Which one’s yours?” She inquires further, glancing back at him, fingers slipping into her back pockets and bag bumping against her hips.

“I actually didn’t make one today,” he answers. “I was mostly just walking around, teaching, helping the women out, eating cookies.”

“Can you teach me? I’ve got nothing for the rest of the day.”

 _Shit._ He wants to. God, does he really want to, but- “Unfortunately, Marie’s got a class in here in a few minutes.”

Her face falls slightly, lips quirking down in a pout.

“But how about tonight?” Scott asks. This is an opportunity and he’s going to take it. “I’ll be working late, per usual, and there’s a wheel in my studio. I’d just need to get all the materials together. You can come by at 8 and we can order some takeout and-”

“Sweet!” She exclaims, scurrying towards the front of the room, “It’s a date!”

_A what?!_

“I’m kidding,” she shouts back at him, hand splayed on the door. “Teach me how to make a bowl.”

_Oh._

And with that, she’s gone.

He’ll teach her how to make a bowl, alright.

\-----

He steals a bench from one of the first floor galleries, placing it in the corner where the curtain is half drawn against the glass. He’s dragged over his potter’s wheel from the opposite corner, positioning it next to a small desk he’d borrowed from the children’s classroom, plugging the foot pedal into the outlet. On top of the desk rests a mound of clay carefully wrapped in plastic next to a large bowl of water, a couple of scrapers, and wire tucked against the sides. He makes a mental note to watch for Stanley, knowing full well his tendency to knock things over. The last thing he wants is to get them both electrocuted on this _not date_.

A bag of takeout rests at the foot of the block of marble. Tessa wanted “something noodley” so he took extra precaution in ordering two “noodley” items for her, wanting to be able to let her choose. And he totally did not hide a bottle of wine amongst his finished sculptures. That’s right, he totally did not hide a bottle of wine for this _not date._ He hopes she likes red.

Tessa rushes in at exactly 8 wearing absolutely nothing on her feet, the door shutting behind her just in time to leave Stanley meowing angrily on the opposite side.

“I’m starving,” she exclaims, making a beeline for the food.

Scott watches her in amusement as her hands rip through the white plastic bag and tear into the brown bag beneath it, sending a staple flying to land in some unknown area of the room. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the styrofoam squeaking as she pops each container open to investigate their contents. He settles next to her, smiling, reaching for the bags to pull out chopsticks and napkins.

“Do you want me to lay my sleeping bag out?” he asks, noticing the way she shifts against the floor. “Might make it more comfortable for you.”

“Nah,” she answers, setting one of the containers down to pick up another. “That would just take up valuable eating time.” She pops the lid, giving out a soft “oooh,” pleased with what she finds.

He hands her a set of chopsticks, watching as she slides the paper from the wood, the sticks snapping in the center as she pulls them apart. “Thank you,” she mutters, already shoveling noodles into her mouth.

“Anytime,” Scott says, shooting her a wink.

She practically inhales her food, even stealing a couple pieces of Scott’s broccoli. He only tries to smack at her hand once, albeit playfully, but she’s too quick and too cute for him to do it again.

“I don’t understand how someone so tiny can eat all of this,” Scott says between bites, in awe, motioning to the decimated containers between them, the oil and sauce settled upon their surfaces, glinting underneath the lights.

“It’s for the brain hidden underneath this big dome forehead of mine,” she giggles, pointer finger tapping against her skull. Her legs stretch out in front of her, ankles popping and toes wiggling as she moves to lean back against the palms of her hands. She looks utterly content.

Scott takes another bite before pushing the rest aside for later.

“Teach me something,” Tessa says, as Scott stacks the rest of the containers, placing them back into the shredded bags.

“Yes ma’am,” he responds, pushing himself up from the floor and extending his hand towards her. Her hand is warm and soft against his as he pulls her up, guiding her towards the bench by the potter’s wheel.

“After you,” he says, beckoning her to sit, before settling next to her, their bodies facing the machine with Tessa directly in front of it.

“Alright, so,” Scott begins. “This is the potter’s wheel. It’s a pan basically, with three wheels stacked at the bottom, the wheelhead, bottom plate, and top plate. There’s a bunch of belts and fuses underneath the pan and a motor and control panel on the side that connect to this little foot pedal thing right here, to control how fast the wheelhead and plates move.”

Her eyes dart back and forth between him and what he’s pointing to, listening intently, a degree of focus settled upon her face.

“Makes sense,” she says, a little burp escaping her.

Scott laughs beside her, “Yeah the machine itself is pretty simple. Now let’s get to the fun part.”

He reaches for the table, the legs straining against the floor as he drags it closer.

“So, you’ve got to get your hands wet,” he continues, pressing down on the foot pedal, the machine whirring and wheel beginning to move. “You’ve got to dampen the wheel just enough so the clay sticks,” he dips a hand into the water, “but not so wet that the clay slides right off.” Water drips from his hand as he removes it from the bowl, settling his palm along the top plate, the surface going darker as the moisture makes contact with it.

He grabs the ball of clay next, removing the cling wrap before handing her the ball, “So you’re gonna take this guy, and just slap it in the center of the wheel.” He lifts his foot off the pedal, stopping the wheel.

“Just slap it on there?” Tessa asks, fingers tapping at the clay.

“Yupp, just smack dab in the middle.” Scott says, watching as she lifts the ball in one hand, bringing it down in the center of the wheel.

“Nice!” Scott exclaims as Tessa smiles back at him. “Now, you want to get your hands really wet and give it another few smacks, just to make sure it stays put.”

He watches as she dips both hands into the bowl, droplets falling before coming down against the clay, murky grey spots settling against her skin.

“Oooh,” she giggles, wiggling her fingers at him. “Slimy.”

“It only gets slimier,” Scott says, grinning and pressing down on the pedal once more.

“Alright, so you want to get a good brace with your legs while you cup the clay on the sides, with both hands. Your fingers should settle behind each other while your palms are against the clay.”

Tessa nods as she follows his instructions, her right hand coming against the surface of the clay with the left settling on top. She widens her stance, legs opening as she leans her elbows onto her thighs, forward towards the wheel.

“Now, you’re going to squeeze between your fingertips and the heels of your palm and pull up.”

He laughs when she lets out a squeal, the clay forming a perfect, cone-like shape as she brings her hands up the clay.

“You’re a natural,” he chuckles, high-fiving her, sending specks of murky water flying.

“Can’t wait to build a small army of bowls,” she says, her thumb swiping at a droplet along his eyebrow.

“Uh, right-” Scott coughs, watching as Tessa’s smile softens, eyes glowing as she waits for him to continue speaking. “So, uh, next, you’re going to work the clay in the center, anchoring your left elbow on the edge of the pan, while keeping your right arm lifted, putting your right hand on the side. You’ll put your left palm on the top of the clay and your right hand. Sort of like a 90 degree angle with your arms. And press down.”

She does as he says; however, the once perfect cone begins to lean awkwardly to one side as the clay turns wonky in her hands. Scott lifts his foot from the pedal, stopping the wheel.

“Not so natural after all,” she huffs out.

“Don’t worry,” he says, nudging her shoulder against his. “Same thing happened to me on my first try.” He leans forward on the bench, pointing to where the clay leans. “It’s pretty common actually. We call this a mushroom, where it droops to one side from the top, stressing the narrow bottom of the clay. It happens when your hands aren’t applying the same amount of pressure. You need that pressure to get the same uniform shape all around.”

He dips his hands back into the bowl, pushing on the pedal once more as he leans over the wheel, the clay forming a gumdrop shape in his hands.

“Can I try again?” she asks, rinsing her hands.

“Of course.”

The clay mushrooms again, Tessa sighing as Scott brings the wheel to a stop.

“Third time's the charm, kid,” Scott chuckles as he returns the clay to its previous shape.

She groans when the wheel stops, clay flicking off the drooped top and into her hair.

Scott stands, reaching for the cloth hanging in his pocket, “Here let’s try this.” He asks her to stand, rearranging the setup so the short edge of the bench is against the potter’s wheel, the longer end stretching away from it.

He guides her back towards the bench, watching as she swings her leg over the wood to straddle it, body inching towards the machine.

“I hope this is okay,” he asks, settling his body behind her, chest grazing her back. “I can help guide the pressure in your hands.”

“Yeah,” she responds, clearing her throat. “This is good.”

He moves closer towards her, body leaning and flush behind her. He wets his hands again, gathering each of her hands in his own, coating them in the creamy liquid. The pedal clicks beneath him.

“Like this,” he says, pushing her hands against the clay.

He feels Tessa shiver as he begins to speak again, his cheek settled against the side of her forehead, her hair tickling his neck. “Most of the pressure will come from your top hand, until the clay gets close to the wheel. And then you’ll mirror that pressure from your side hand, so it’s equal with both hands. This centers the clay.”

He takes in a breath as the clay morphs underneath their hands. She smells utterly delicious, feels so warm against him, lithe as he guides her body to work the clay.

“We’re going to sink a hole into the clay, now. Using your right fingertips pressing down, while your left hand remains at the side.”

He guides her fingers to the center, slippery as he pushes down against her, watching as a small dip forms in the middle. He lifts her hands from the surface, squeezing the digits to remove the excess clay that has accumulated between the curves in her fingers.

“Then you’re going to pull up at the clay. Put your left thumb outside of the clay and leave the rest of your left fingers inside, while putting your right hand on top. You’re going to squeeze with your left thumb and fingertips and lift the clay up and out.”

His fingers slot between hers as they continue to move. He hopes she isn’t bothered by his heart pounding against her back. He’s definitely not bothered by the way her body shifts occasionally, her backside rubbing up against him. Her body nestles perfectly into his, every dimple and arch of her back, the curves and dips of her shoulders. Every upward and downward motion of her arms shifting her body as she forms the clay.

He can’t help but rub small circles along the curve and bend of her wrists. Mindlessly, he slides his hands along the lengths of her arms, coating her skin in a sheen of white, continuing to guide her movements. He can feel her every motion as she works the clay, every tightening muscle, every knuckle and bone in her hands, every time the blood pumps through her veins. He can hear every sharp intake of breath that escapes her lips, as he presses further against her.

His hands come back to rest atop hers, perfect and petite in his grip. He can feel the cold shell of her ear against his lips, as he continues, his voice humming into her ear.

“Now, you’re going to place both hands on the right side of the bowl, one hand in, one hand out. Using your fingers to pull the clay up and out, stretching it from the inside, easing pressure when you get towards the rim. Once you get past the rim, you’re gonna compress it, using two of your fingers, one from each hand to create a 90 degree angle to smooth it out.”

He takes her through the motions, placing two of her small fingers against the edge of the bowl, before pausing to cleanse their hands again. She’s smooth underneath his palms, hands delicately waiting for his return whenever he leaves her.

“We’re going to do this one more time, sweeping your inside fingers even deeper, up and out of the bowl, to get a curve.”

Her breath goes ragged as he pushes the tips of her fingers into the clay, water pooling in the middle, filling the air with a soft, wet sucking sound as he increases their pressure deep into the middle.

“Then, we’ll take this little metal scraper guy right here, to smooth out the inside of the bowl. Using light pressure starting at the rim and slowly moving towards the center.”

He plucks a scraper from the table, placing it in her hand and guiding it along the inside, watching the marks from their fingers disappear, as they dip the metal edge further into the bowl.

“Next, we’re going to scrape the bottom of the bowl that’s resting on the wheel. It’ll create a ridge for the wire to go through, so we can release the bowl.”

He takes the scraper from her, angling it so the edge meets the bowl where it’s connected to the wheel, watching as a small raised line accumulates along the bottom. He lifts his foot from the pedal, bringing the wheel to a stop in front of them. He places the scraper down and picks up the two wooden handles of the wire cutter, placing each end in Tessa’s hands.

“We’re going to hold this wire thing taught on the far side and pull it through.” He lifts their arms above the bowl, nuzzling against her as they move, gliding the wire across the surface of the top plate, all the way through the base of the bowl, before plucking the wire from her.

“Then you’re going to put your palms facing down on the opposite side of the bowl and grab it where the clay is thickest, at the very bottom, and then twist and pull it up.”

His hands leave her as she follows his words, lifting the bowl from the surface.

“This is beautiful,” she whispers, turning the bowl in her hands, before placing it gently back onto the surface of the top plate.

He leans back from her, surprised when she remains flush against him, body still mirroring his. As he moves forward, arms raised and angling for the water, she turns to look back at him, bringing their lips dangerously close, her small frame boxed between his forearms. He feels the cool dampness of her hands settle against his legs, staining the black denim white. Scott can’t breathe as she leans her head back against his shoulder, puffs of warm air hitting his neck, her hands moving up and down to massage his thighs.

“This was-” she lets out, before Scott brings his lips down against hers, a hand snaking into her hair, globs of clay smearing into the strands as the other comes down to splay across her belly, gray white liquid dripping down his wrists.

She pulls away from him briefly, turning around on the bench to face him, hands cupping his face, smearing clay across his cheeks and smoothing down his neck, before coming to a stop above the waist of his jeans. He doesn’t take his eyes off her as she slips her hand beneath the fabric, gasping as she tightens around him, the slippery mixture from the water and clay lubricating her hand deliciously up and down his cock.

“Tess-” he gasps out as she works him, her eyes dark as he grabs for the back of her neck, pulling her lips back against his.

She bites down when he comes, the sharp metallic taste tangy against the tip of his tongue. He feels her pull away from him, hand still moving up and down the length of him, her tongue licking at the red against her lips.

After a moment, his breathing slows and she releases him, pushing against his thighs to lift herself from the bench. Her feet squelch against the floor, splattered wet with grey.

“Thanks for the lesson,” she says, washing her hands in the bowl, cum and clay dripping from her fingertips. She hovers over him, grabbing for the ends of his shirt, twisting her fingers in the dark cotton to clean her hands.

Scott looks down at himself, at all the marks that she left. The grey handprints against his chest and thighs, the dulled streaks of white everywhere else. He can feel the clay hardening against his skin, clumps weighing down strands of his hair.

He looks up as the door swings shut.

_Oh fuck._

\-----

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that escalated, huh. [#MeAsScott](http://janizms.tumblr.com/)  
> Title from [Movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSye8OO5TkM) by Hozier.  
> Inspired by [The Art of The Affair](https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/an-artistic-whos-who-to-who-slept-with-whom/2016/12/15/485213f6-c2f6-11e6-9a51-cd56ea1c2bb7_story.html?noredirect=on&utm_term=.6eb53922633b).  
> Tessa's body of work influenced by [Kit King](https://www.google.com/search?q=kit+king&rlz=1CAEAQE_enUS815&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiE1I7JyqzgAhVDdt8KHQMsApcQ_AUIDigB&biw=1366&bih=697).  
> Scott's body of work influenced by [Barry X Ball](https://www.google.com/search?q=barry+x+ball&rlz=1CAEAQE_enUS815&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjms7u8yqzgAhVnh-AKHZnxDC0Q_AUIDigB&biw=1366&bih=697#imgrc=_).  
> 


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